I was already on my feet, mouth open in a soundless cheer, pride flooding every inch of me. My throat burned with it. My eyes stung. He’d done it. Again. Like it was nothing.
He turned to celebrate, and then his gaze found mine through the chaos.
My breath hitched.
Everything else faded.
It was just us. Just that look. Just this feeling between us that kept growing louder, bigger, realer with every beat.
I pressed my fingers harder to the glass, like I could reach through it and touch him. His lips quirked—barely. Just enough for me to see it was real.
This wasn’t just adrenaline. Or lust. Or rebellion.
It was ours.
And nothing—not the crowd, not the past, not even the ice—could come between us.
The moment we stepped inside, the club hit me like a wave—heat, sound, motion. The bass vibrated through my bones, syncing with my pulse. I clutched Nick’s hand tighter as bodies moved all around us, wild and free, like the music had taken over their limbs.
Neon lights bled across the room in waves of violet and blue, giving everything a dreamy, unreal feel. I tried to match Nick’s calm confidence as he navigated the crowd, but it wasn’t easy—not when I could feel eyes flicking toward us, catching on our entwined fingers, on the way I wore his jersey earlier like a second skin, on the way I followed behind him like I belonged to him.
Because I did.
And that realization sent a thrill up my spine.
When we reached the velvet rope, the bouncer didn’t even blink—just nodded and let us through like we were royalty. Like I was someone. It still stunned me sometimes, how different everything felt with Nick beside me. How safe. How dangerous. How real.
He pulled me into a sleek VIP booth, the leather warm beneath my thighs as I slid in beside him. Close. His arm brushed mine, and that was all it took for my skin to light up with awareness.
A waitress brought champagne like it had been waiting for us. Like this—the win, the celebration, the pulse of the night—was all preordained.
Nick leaned close, lips brushing the shell of my ear to be heard above the beat. “We did that.”
My heart flipped. I turned toward him, laughter bubbling up before I even meant to let it out. “You’re going to give me a heart attack if we keep celebrating like this.”
He smirked, slow and smug, as his fingers traced a circle on my knee. “Better than being bored.”
God, he made everything feel dangerous in the best way.
I glanced around the club—how the lights flickered off the crystal in our glasses, how people stared like they could feel something buzzing between us, even from across the room.
I looked back at him. “Do you always do this after a game?”
He shrugged, took a sip of champagne, his throat working as he swallowed. I watched the movement like a fool, totally spellbound. “Only when I win.”
I bit my bottom lip, dragging my gaze away from his mouth. “What’s it feel like?”
He raised a brow. “What's what feel like?”
I nodded, suddenly serious. “Winning. What’s it really feel like?”
His answer didn’t come right away. Instead, he studied me for a second, then set down his glass and shifted closer. So close I could feel his breath on my lips. “It feels like this,” he said, voice low and rough, “—knowing you’re here, wearing my name, looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters.”
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening at the way he said it—not cocky, not smooth. Just honest.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was trying to keep up with someone else’s version of me.
I just felt… right. Like I’d already won something too.
